


Dangerous and Good

by tactfulGnostalgic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Retail, Death Threats Even, Everyone Is Over 21 And Consume Alcohol Only In Moderate Quantities, F/F, Humanstuck, Legally Blind Terezi (without corrective lenses), POV Terezi Pyrope, Threats, Vriska is a retail worker, age appropriate drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9116857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tactfulGnostalgic/pseuds/tactfulGnostalgic
Summary: Because the cashier looks like she's about one thinly veiled criticism of her lipstick choice from shoving a pen through someone's eye, and the crone in front of you at the checkout is eyeing her lips with the piteous consternation of someone who was born in 1962 and struggles to grasp change as a concept, you take out your phone and fiddle with Pesterchum to avoid being counted as a witness.Vriska works in retail, and Terezi makes a midnight Walmart run for a collection of objects that would qualify as probable cause in a murder investigation. Consequently, they go on a date.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this post on tumblr and I thought, "This is Vrisrezi," and lo and behold, nobody had written it yet.
> 
> Be the change you want to see in the world.
> 
> http://greedily.co.vu/post/153103284908/my-nemesis-im-going-to-hurt-you-of-course-but

Because the cashier looks like she's about one thinly veiled criticism of her lipstick choice from shoving a pen through someone's eye, and the crone in front of you at the checkout is eyeing her lips with the piteous consternation of someone who was born in 1962 and struggles to grasp change as a concept, you take out your phone and fiddle with Pesterchum to avoid being counted as a witness. 

"Are you sure you don't have any more in the back? The last time I came here, there were some in the back."

" _Fascinatingly_ ," the cashier says tightly, "people have come and bought things from the store since the last time you came."

"I don't need that attitude of yours."

"Oh, I simply _beg_ your pardon."

"Where are the rest of the laundry bins?"

"We sold out two hours ago. I told you."

"You can't have, I came here yesterday, you had hundreds. Who's your manager?"

The cashier looks up with clear, unmistakeable bloodlust in her eyes. "He's in the back. Would you like me to get him for you?"

"Yes. I'm sure he'll sort this out." The woman folds her arms, a smirk worming its way across her face. You eye the cart of tabloid magazines and microwavable dinners under her arm, and the eight pages of coupons she has spread across the checkout, and intently mind your own business.

The cashier returns with a guy built like a pro wrestler, with pecs the size of your head and long, shimmering - conditioned? - hair tied back into a ponytail. He folds his arms, muscles rippling, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his broad nose, and rumbles, "What seems to be the problem?"

"I want a laundry bin," the woman insists.

The manager casts the cashier a discerning glance. "We're out of stock."

"What? No. No, I came here yesterday. You had plenty."

"Ma'am," the manager says, with infinite patience, "they were bought yesterday." 

"Can you order more?"

"Hmm." He pulls out a clipboard hooked to his hip, flips a few sheets. You think it's mostly just for show. "Yes, likely. It'll take three to four business days."

"But I need it _now_."

"With all due respect, madam," he says, with dignity, "what calls so urgently for a laundry basket which cannot be replaced by a similar receptacle, like a trash bag, or something of that nature?"

She splutters, screeches something about 'respect for your betters' and 'good service nowadays,' but provides no substantive answer, which leads you to think there isn't one. The rest of the checkout is performed under the manager's watchful eye. The cashier moves with luxuriant slowness, shooting the customer periodic cold smiles as she takes her sweet time checking and charging each item. When the lady is finally bagged and ready to go, she turns around and spits, "Don't bother ordering them. I'll be finding my bins elsewhere."

You watch the cashier carefully, but she just leans on one elbow, gives her a hard, mean smirk, and performs the jauntiest two-finger salute you've ever seen while brandishing lifting her other middle finger skyward.

You fall a little bit in love then and there.

The lady gasps and flees the store. Her bags rustle righteously as the doors slide shut behind her, and the manager turns to the cashier, frowning. "Vriska," he begins.

"Can it," she snaps. "I'm not in the mood."

"You cannot treat customers that way. Difficult as she was, she -"

"C'mon, do you _want_ people like that here? That was public service, clean and simple."

"You have no right to treat them -"

"It's a free country."

"Not a free contract," he reminds her, and that sobers her up. He casts you a look. "Take care of the remaining customer. I will talk to you afterward."

"Yeah, whatever," she grumbles. When he's out of earshot, she mutters, "Go suck a dick," and then crooks one finger at you. "All right, Glasses, c'mon, let's get your shit over with."

You haul your cart through the register. Getting a better look at her, the blue lipstick isn't the only eccentricity the woman might have noticed; the cashier has round wire-framed glasses and dark blue eyes that glitter under layers and layers of dark makeup; her ears are pierced in six places, studded with various shades of cerulean, and a gold nose ring is hooked through her right nostril. Half of her hair is shaven; the rest tumbles over her shoulders in tight black coils. 

Vriska looks down at your cart and squints. "What the fuck."

You do your best to look like a model citizen and place your credit card on the countertop. "Problem?"

"Uh, yeah," she says. She jabs a finger at the contents of your cart. "I'm pretty sure I'm legally obligated to call the police after looking at this."  

"You aren't," you supply helpfully. "Mandatory reporting only applies if you can name a specific crime you suspect the subject of."

"How about _murder?"_ She lifts the two-gallon tub of bleach and eyes it suspiciously. "I've never seen anyone under forty buy this much bleach."

"I'm older than I look."

The contents of your cart in total number these: three packs of razor blades, a two-gallon tub of bleach, an extra-large pack of garbage bags, tampons, ace bandages, a cutlery set, a shovel, propane, a lighter, a set of handcuffs, and a cane.

"Oh," you say, pulling a pack of gum out of your pocket. "And this." You put it on the counter beside your card, give her an apologetic look. 

"I'm calling the police," she decides.

"Won't help you," you tell her. "I'm friends with the chief's son." You don't tell her that Karkat now refuses to use his influence to weasel you out of the holding cells, and with your current relationship you doubt you could even get him to post bail. Breaking up with a guy tends to do that.

"This system is fucking corrupt," she sighs, and swipes the bleach.

"So." You are aware, theoretically, that making small talk is a bad idea, especially after two o'clock in the morning, but you haven't held a real conversation in over forty-eight hours and you're craving real interaction. "Rough manager?" You nod in the direction of the manager's office.

She glances up, wrinkles her nose, looks back to her work. "Yeah. You could say that."

"Seemed fair enough, though."

"Yeah, well. He's got a stick the size of a dildo shoved up his ass and he gets off on it, but he signs my paycheck, so." She shrugs and swipes the tampons.

"I know the feeling. Worked for a guy back in high school, oh, man, never gave anybody a fucking break. He came on to literally everybody. And he'd give you a demerit if you turned him down. I remember one girl slept with him just to get a raise."

She snorts. "Try that with Equius and he'll act like you fucked his mom. The only person allowed to make jokes like that is his QPP, and she doesn't hang around much."

"Can't imagine why." You gesture broadly at the store - rows upon rows of sterile-smelling plastic, blazing fluorescent lights. "Pleasant atmosphere."

"Tell it." She grabs the top of the propane tank, heaves at it, grunts. "Shit, what is this made of, lead? It's  _gas._ Why is it so fucking heavy?"

"You need help?" You hurry around behind the counter, grab the other end of the tank.

"Sure. Haul on three, okay?"

"All right." You brace yourself.

"Three, two, one, -  _FUCK!"_

On 'one' you haul it out of the cart, the tank leaping up - it really wasn't that heavy, to you, compared to what you lifted on the regular - and bashing her skull with a leadan  _clank._ She screams and pinwheels backward, a hand flying to the swelling bruise on her forehead; you drop it immediately and rush forward, babbling apologies.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, are you okay - are you - Jesus Christ, are you bleeding? I'm so sorry, I thought I - I overestimated how much it weighed, I'm so sorry -"

"You fuckingasshole, you  _assaulted_ me, I could have your ass in court for this -"

"Technically," you say, as if you are completely incapable of maintaining a decent filter, "any suit you could file against me here would be for a charge of _battery,_ not assault, seeing as I made physical contact -"

" _Fuck you, I'll sue you for that too -"_

"It would be a waste of money on both counts, given that you'd also have to prove that I intended harmful contact, which, uh, I really didn't, I'm so sorry -"

"If I have to take a fucking sick day for this," she swears, glaring at you murderously, "I'm going to kill you. I'm going to track you down, and go after all of your fucking friends and loved ones and -"

"I don't," you blurt.

She falls silent, frowning at you. ". . . What?"

"I don't have any of those," you say, wishing and praying for a swift death to take you from the situation.

"Friends," she repeats slowly. 

You shift from foot to foot. "Mmhm."

"You don't . . . have those." She shakes her head, cradling the wound on her temple. "Not even  _one?_ Fuck, I - even Equius has someone, okay, even _Equius -_ "

"Nope." You haven't talked to Karkat in months. Dave in less. It'd just be awkward, with them dating, and yours being the breakup that catalyzed it; Tula hasn't texted since you left home and she went pro in August.

"And you aren't. Like." She rubs her head, clearly in pain. "Lying. For their sake. Or anything."

You stick out your hand and help her to her feet. "No," you say mildly, trying to appear as nonchalant as you can, spilling your guts to a retail worker at two in the morning. "I genuinely just don't have any, and I wanted to save you the trouble of having to start the process of looking into it, only to find nothing to work with. So."

"Oh. Ah. Wow." She tangles her fingers in her hair, tries to tug out some of the knots, avoids your eyes. It's kind of cute. "That's . . . polite of you? I guess."

"Yep." You pop the -p and stick your hands in your pockets. "Hey, can I finish checking out now?"

She ignores your request and leans heavily on the counter, rubbing her eyes. "Holy shit, man. Fuck. I don't know if I'm just emotional because it's fuck-thirty o'clock in the morning or whatever, but. This is like . . . seriously bumming me out right now. Uh." She glances at you, runs her eyes up and down your person. You become conscious of your decrepit jeans and the threadbare teal sweatshirt you left your apartment in. You didn't think you'd be meeting anybody worth impressing at a midnight Walmart run.

"Uh. Are you . . . busy tonight?" She spares a lingering glance for your bright red crocs, and then, when you lift one unimpressed eyebrow at her, flinches. "Oh. Fuck. Obviously you aren't. Sorry, wasn't trying to be insensitive." She swipes a few more items, leaves the propane tank in the cart. You decide to come back for that once her shift is over. Or maybe in a few years, after you've gotten over the shame of this entire debacle. Your embarrassment has begun screeching in tempo with your anxiety. Luckily, they seem to preoccupy each other long enough for you to resume control of your thoughts.

"I wasn't - trying - to be insensitive," she starts haltingly. The bruise on her head purples and blackens before your eyes. "God."

You shrug.

She takes a deep breath, swipes the last of your items, and then grabs you by the shoulders. "Anyway," she says. "We're going to the movies, okay?"

You blink in bewilderment.

"I'm not getting any satisfaction out of . . . that conversation. Any joy, from threatening you, just . . . whoosh. Right out the window. Especially cause you seem to know, like, a bunch of weird legal loopholes? That whole exchange just truly fuckin' wrecked me emotionally and I'm - I'm getting you out of this shithole. ASAP." She nods, releases you, shoves the plastic bag of your purchases at your chest. You clutch it like a life preserver in the Central Atlantic.

"Right," you say weakly. "Okay."

"I'm off at - ah, shit. Technically, I get off at six, okay? But. Fuck, Equius doesn't care, I'll just get him a nice horse painting for his anniversary or something, who fuckin' cares." She casts a glance back at his office door, which is clearly shut. "He's probably fucking with something from the robotics department, he's not coming out till six. Okay. I'm going right now, and I'll just tell him that I forgot to clock out next time I see him. Problem solved." She grabs you by the shoulder. "All right, sweetheart, we're going for a fucking movie."

"Yes," you say, although you really don't think she gives much of a shit for your opinion. "Yes, that would be nice."

"Also," she says. "We're using your car. Eq drives me home, because retail pays jack shit."

"Okay. Okay?" You clench and unclench your hands around the bag. "Um. Problem."

"What?"

"I don't have one?"

"What, a  _car?"_ She furrows her brow. "How did you get here? We're in midtown."

"Um," you say. "Um."

* * *

"Holy  _fuck,"_ she breathes, sprinting through the automatic doors.

Your Harley sits cocked elegantly to one side in one of the handicapped parking spots nearest the entrance. Her silver finishings glint coolly from the fluorescents, peeking in and out of the matte black texture, and the silver handlebars sprout from the headlight like a pair of broad, arcing horns. Devil horns. She screams like a devil when she's moving, too. She cost an arm and a leg, but it wasn't like anyone gave a shit what you did with your money - it was yours, you earned it. If you were going to be a broke-ass college student, you were going to do it in style.

Vriska drops to her knees, runs one hand along the rear exhaust. "I'm going to cry," she says, and her voice wobbles like she's not lying. "This is - this is a _work of art_ , where did you  _get_ this -"

"It was a graduation present from me to me," you say, pulling the keys out of your pocket. She strokes the seat reverently. "Fits two people, if you squish." You throw one leg over the seat, pat the area behind you. "As long as you're comfortable with strangers." You give her a grin, and hope it isn't too unnerving. You've been told that your grins are unnerving. 

But the grin she gives you in return, in your opinion, puts anything you could manage to shame. Her canines are filed and studded with rubies, which should make you wary, but if you're being completely honest it only turns you on.

She settles herself on the seat behind you, her legs sliding up to bracket your thighs, and you swallow hard. When she puts her arms around you, you can feel her chest pressed against your back, feel the soft thump of her heartbeat through the back of your sweatshirt. Her hair tickles your face and her breath, hot, rushes over your neck. You forcibly repress a shiver.

"Uh," you say, pulling the helmet from where you hung it on one handle. "You should probably take this."

"Don't you need it?" Her voice, so close to your ear, sounds much sweeter, much softer. 

"Don't _need_ it unless I crash," you say unsteadily. She takes it from your hand and you hear the muffled click as she fastens it. "Which I don't."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Impressive," she purrs, and wraps her arms around your midriff.  

You secure your purchases by wrapping the handle of the bag around your wrist, then wedging it between you and the front of the bike. You rev the engine, and she roars at you pleasantly, quieting to a hum when you stall. Squeeze the clutch to the grip, thumb the start, listen to her sing for you. Then you push the choke all the way forward, wrench the handlebars into a tight spin, and shoot off towards the main road.

Somewhere between sixty and seventy MPH, Vriska lets out a wild, ecstatic scream, her hair snapping in the wind, nearly inaudible over the air buffeting your air. You kept your goggles on, because there's no way in hell you're piloting without them, but you are for a moment grateful to have short hair. It hardly gets in your face at all without the confines of your helmet.

There's a thrill to driving at night; the streets won't be busy until seven, and even though the lights still buzz red and green alternately, it's too dark for the cameras to catch you running every red you meet. Vriska laughs maniacally whenever you skid past a yellow or blaze through a stop sign. You start doing it more, to hear her laugh, even though you of all people know the punishment for doing it. This is, you think distantly, a very bad idea; but every time that thought starts to get any traction, she squeezes her thighs around yours, and all of a sudden you're twisting the throttle and shooting up another ten MPH.

After a while, you can barely feel your fingers from where they're tight around the handlebars, nor your face from the air rushing up against it; but you can feel the heat of her against your back, and the cold press of her teeth against your carotid artery, and your own pulse ringing wildly in your ears, and that's plenty.

* * *

Because evidently nothing is playing at three in the morning, you end up going to Denny's.

The hostess, Porrim, perks up when she sees you. "Rez," she chirps, rising from her drowsy perch on the counter. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"I'm seeing other fast food chains, nowadays."

"You're a heartbreaker, Pyrope," she sighs dramatically, picking up two menus. "Who's your friend?"

You cast a glance back for your partner, who is lingering in the entrance, shooting disinterested glances at the scant few other patrons here this time of night. Most of them are creeps. One of them makes a lewd gesture at her. She licks one finger slowly, lasciviously, and then bites down on it, hard enough to draw blood. The man flinches and hunches back over his meal. You fall a little bit more in love.

"This is Vriska," you say. "I met her two hours ago at a Walmart."

Porrim nods. "And now you're dating?"

"I beat her over the head with a propane tank and then took her for a ride on my motorcycle. We're seeing how it goes."

"You have my blessing."

"Thank you."

She leads you to your table, a private booth in the corner that she always saves for you. After depositing a pair of waters on the tables, she gives Vriska a thoughtful, evaluative look, says, "Let me know if you need anything," and leaves you be.

Vriska tilts her head at you. "Rez?"

"Terezi," you say. "Terezi Pyrope."

"That's a mouthful."

"Sorry,  _Vriska._ "

She laughs. It's loud and fills the room, startling a number of patrons. "Fair." She nods at Porrim, who has resumed leaning on the counter, watching the entrance without interest. "Who's she?"

"That's Porrim. She and my sister dated for a while a few years back. Uh, she invited me to come live with her when she moved out here."

"So she's your roommate?"

"Nah, she . . . she's living with this weird blogger dude downtown, nowadays. But she's why I'm here."

"What happened with your sister?"

You force through the awkwardness that usually overwhelms you when you talk about Tula. "They broke up. She's dating some Swedish gaming asshole now, I don't know where she is."

"Damn." Vriska picks up one of the paper napkins and begins to shred it methodically. "Same here."

You frown. "Your sister's dating a Swedish Youtuber?"

She snickers. "Nah. God forbid she do something  _that_ interesting. No, she fucked off six years ago to travel with one of her friends and hasn't come back since."

"Did you live with her?"

"No, thank God. I was loafing with a pal of mine, but he got boring as shit after his girlfriend dumped him, so I left. Eq's an old friend of mine, we were neighbors as kids. Figured he'd get me a job, and hey, I was right." She shrugs, a sharp, apathetic movement. "Doesn't pay for much, but it gets me my own apartment, so."

"Cool." You mean to ask her more about her job, but Porrim comes back. She places a foaming glass of beer in front of Vriska and a strawberry milkshake towering with whipped cream in front of you. 

"S' not from any of these assholes, it's from me," she says. "You're welcome."

"Porrim," you complain. "I'm twenty-f-"

"You're driving? You get a milkshake."

Vriska chokes on her own giggle, resulting in an ugly snort-laugh that crawls out of her throat and into her beer. It's adorable.

"Thanks, P," she says, and sips it. 

"No problem." Porrim gives you a poorly concealed wink and then slinks back to her station. 

"Strawberry, huh?" Vriska sets her beer back on the table and makes grabby hands at you. "Gimme."

"Hey, fuck you, it's my milkshake."

"Fuck  _you_ , I'm skipping work for this. Hand it over."

You don't so much give it to her as you let her take it. She grabs a spoon and digs deep under the whip cream to pull out a spoonful. She even knows the right way to eat a milkshake. You're in trouble.

She licks cream from her lips and then sits back, tapping the spoon against her mouth. "So," she says. "How'd you know all that courtroom shit?"

"Hmm?" You pull your eyes from the spoon's perch just under her nose ring and focus. 

"When I was threatening to sue you. I was like, 'You fucked me up, I'mma take your ass to court,' and you were all, 'Nah, actually, you can't, because of XYZ bullshit whatever whatever technicality.' What's up with that?"

"Oh. I'm a law student. I take classes down at Skaia U."

"Law school? I wouldn't peg you for a law student."

"What _would_ you peg me for?"

She purses her mouth and gives you a long look up and down. "Five dollars," she says, at length.

You blink, process. Then, holding her eyes: "A little pricey, don't you think?"

"For what I can provide? Not at all."

"I'll need a guarantee of quality."

"A sample, maybe?"

"Perhaps I could talk to a former customer," you suggest, and she cracks up.

When Vriska loses it, she  _loses_ it. Her laugh bubbles up out of her body in sharp bleats, her ankles bounding against the side of the booth and her eyes wrinkled shut. She drapes herself over the table and gasps in long breaths, reaching for you, patting your shoulder.

"Holy shit, you're so much more fun than Equius," she says. Straightening up: "I'm kind of emotionally compromised, spending eight hours with the human equivalent of the Lincoln Memorial at a time. Sorry."

"That's fine," you say mildly, and sip your milkshake. "To be fair, this isn't how I thought I'd be spending my morning, either."

"Oh, right. Man what the fuck even  _was_ your cart?" She wonders, cradling her chin in her palm. "Like, I was joking about the police, but if there was a murder reported in the next twenty-four hours, I would totally consider you a suspect."

You give her an unimpressed look. "Please. I wouldn't get caught _._ "

"Wow. Consider me totally relieved of any and all concerns. For real, though."

You frown, lean back, tick the points off your finger as you count them. "Uh, let me see. Razor blades: haven't shaved in two months; bleach, because my roommate has a messy girlfriend and teriyaki is a bitch to get out; garbage bags, to restock; tampons, because pads are uncomfortable as fuck; bandages, better safe than sorry; cutlery, because I haven't eaten anything but takeout off of paper plates for a year and I think I've forgotten how to use it; a shovel, because one of my roommate's friends asked for it but he's banned from all seven stores in the city that carry them and he's a good person to have owe you a favor; and then, of course, ha, the propane and the lighter - she was planning a grillout, but, uh, she can reschedule, I bet." You end your speech hastily, eyeing her bruise.

She doesn't seem to notice. "Okay. What about the handcuffs?" She raises her eyebrows. "And the cane."

"I have very particular interests." You smile as enigmatically as you can.

"Kinky." Her eyes glitter.

You snort and take another spoonful of milkshake. "If you like."

"Dom or sub?" She seems genuinely curious.

You inhale the milkshake instead of swallowing and spend two minutes  hacking it up into a napkin. She whacks you on the back till you're finished. After you're finished, you hide your face, because you're a) not sure how to answer the question, and b) not sure how to face her after spitting up your notably non-alcoholic drink. 

"Are you gonna answer the question?" She's merciless.

"I don't know! How am I supposed to answer that?"

"Oh, a switch. Nice." She nods thoughtfully, takes a pull of beer.

" _No._ " You set down your spoon with more force than is strictly necessary; she looks alarmed. "Not that I'm like - against that kind of thing? Strictly speaking? Like, if somebody asked me - actually, never mind, forget that sentence. The cane and handcuffs aren't for sex."

"Shit. Uh, sorry." She has the decency to look contrite. "But, like. What, then?"

You consider for a moment, and then take off your glasses, dangling them in the space between you. "Right now, I'm legally blind," you tell her.

"Wow. Helluva prescription."

"Yeah." You slide them back on, and her face slips back into focus. "The cane's for when I can't find them at night. Or in case I lose them. Also, you're a lot more likely to be left alone by assholes on campus if you're wielding a cane." You pause for a moment. "It looks badass in the courtroom, too. You ever seen  _Daredevil?"_

"Fuck yeah."

"Like that."

"Sweet." She nods. "And the handcuffs?"

You watch her fingers as they fidget with the shredded remains of the napkin. "Well, the thing is," you say uneasily, "I get nightmares."

She frowns but doesn't say anything, so you blaze on.

"These kind of - bad nightmares? Uh, shit from childhood, I think. I don't know. Can't remember it. And I sleepwalk, sometimes, which has got me into - a number of scrapes -" You lean under the table and her eyes follow you. You yank up the left pant leg, revealing an narrow scar running the length of your shin.

"Got that when I was fifteen," you say. "Walked out of the house and cut myself on the mailbox." You laugh awkwardly. "It's bad news for a blind girl to walk around at night."

"So you bought the handcuffs -"

"I can't undo handcuffs in my sleep," you say simply.

"Huh." She thinks about it and nods. "Yeah, that's a smart solution."

"You do?"

"Well, why wouldn't I?"

"My roommate doesn't think it's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"If there's a fire or something, it'd be dangerous."

She snorts. "That's stupid."

"Is it?"

"She lets you drive the motorcycle, right?"

You nod.

"Well, get educated. The odds of dying in a motorcycle accident are one in 802. The odds of dying in a fire are one in 91,149." She rolls her eyes. "Jesus. Handcuff yourself to whatever the fuck you want, the most dangerous thing in your life right now is something you get on every day."

"Guess that's true."

"It is. I'm smart that way." She drinks more beer, slides it over to you. "There you go. I'm not an asshole, see?"

"I think you're still an asshole," you note, licking some of the foam from the edge. "How'd'you know so much about dying?"

"Same way you know so much about law."

"You went to school for it?" You lift an eyebrow, amused.

She gives you a look from the corner of her eye and nods, shortly.

"Oh shit, really?"

Vriska props her boots up on the table and fiddles with the laces. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a soldier."

"And then?"

She taps her fingers rapidly on the table, and then stands up. "Not enough drinks here for that," she decides. "It's what, four?"

You check your watch. "Four-thirteen."

"Well, if I'm gonna skip work, I'm going to get a few decent hours of sleep out of it."

"Sure." You stand up and scoot out of the booth. "You want me to take you home?"

She gives you a long, evaluative look. "Nah," she decides. "I'll call a pal. We're still strangers."

"You rode with me before."

"Yeah, but not to my house, dumbass. That's private info."

"Sure," you say quickly, because you're verging on sounding like a creeper, and you still hope to impress this girl. "Another time?"

"Another Denny's?" Her lips quirk. 

"Anywhere."

"Big promises."

"Don't have any other friends to spend money on," you point out, and she rolls her eyes.

"I made up for that, and you know it. Shut up." She punches your shoulder and heads for the door; you tag along. 

In the entrance, you say, "Should I pick you up, next time?"

"Come with your motorcycle. Or don't bother coming at all."

"I'd have to come in it. Not like I can come without it."

"Kinky."

Porrim gives you an amused look, and you quail, remembering that she, unlike Vriska, knows you, and knows several of your acquaintances, too. 

"Whatever," you say hastily. You face Vriska; her dark eyes shine from the streetlight outside and the soft lanterns peppering each table inside. "Uh, I'll catch you later."

She leans in and says "You better," and then she's pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth; you mean to do something cheeky, like turn your head and catch it squarely on the lips, but before you can process the idea she's flying through the doors and out of sight.

Porrim whistles, low and slow. 

"Shut the fuck up," you say instinctively, but your heart's not in it.

"How'd it go?"

You chew on your lip. "She offered to peg me and then asked if I was a dom or a sub." You turn to face her. "All in all, pretty well."

Porrim laughs. "Goddamn."

"Yeah, exactly."

You rub at your eyes and remember that you have an eight A.M. class. "Fuck. I'm tired."

She stretches. "Do you want me to take you home? I get off soon."

"Nah, I have to take my bike back." You lean on the door. "Thanks for everything, Porrim."

"Come back more often," she entreats you. "I don't see you as much as I should."

You want to. You regret falling out of touch with her; she's one of those people you think could be your friend, if you tried a little harder at it. "Will do," you promise, and then you leave. 

Vriska is gone; her friend must have been nearby, and come to pick her up immediately. The only thing left in the parking lot is your cycle, untouched. Which is a miracle, come to think of it, given the time of night.

You seat yourself and clip on the helmet. The scent of her shampoo clings to the interior, and when you breathe in, it fills your lungs. 

You snap the goggles on over your eyes and start the engine. You realize with a start that you don't even know her last name; you know little more than that she works in retail, and that she has a sister, and that her relationship with her boss is more complicated than most.

But that's enough, you think. You accelerate approaching the road and take the curve sharply, sharper than you would usually. That's what makes it exciting, isn't it? Like riding a motorcycle down an abandoned road an hour before sunrise. Dangerous, sure, but who cares? That's what makes it good.

 

**Author's Note:**

> someday i want to be the kind of person who writes fluffy short oneshots  
> but that day is not this day


End file.
